


Something

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind!Sherlock, M/M, Teenagers, Teenlock, blind, this story (originally from fanfiction.net) has a past im not willing to go through again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blindlock, teenlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After the bomb, everything basically changed for everyone.

The school had lock downs every week, and every teacher had to be certified in resuscitation. Detectives from not only the city, but the government as well, came to question those involved (or those present). The few students who did pass away had a ceremony devoted to their lives, and the ones still in the hospital were celebrated seperately.

But those aren't the changed lives being mentioned.

It was Sherlock Holmes a sometimes highly, sometimes poorly thought of high school student. His life that changed. It was John Hamish Watson's life that deteriorated and was waiting for its jump start, something about the bomb going off flicking a switch on inside of him. It was Molly Hooper's school life that began filling in, her choices being made.

And mummy Holmes, and daddy Holmes... big brother Mycroft... New-to-town Counselor Lestrade... Everyone.

Not because of the bomb, no. The bomb going off just happens to cause the minor detail that runs rampant and destroys and builds those lives.

Sherlock was blinded.

When the coppers and firefighters came upon the scene, they faced the hole dented into the brick school, and kids everywhere devastated and too shocked to make a noise. The fires left behind where scattered but small flames, so most of the men could focus on the kids and teachers if any.

That's when they found Sherlock.

His upper half was bent back, going through the roof of the basement while his other half was being crushed above by rubble, his left foot barely noticeable. Wedged in the hole in the ground, his slightly conscious self could only sway. Nothing was in his line of vision, he couldn't even comprehend that he was hanging a floor above the cemented basement.

As the fighters began lifting him slowly, one wrong move and he'd be stuck again, the crowdistic gasps of the students gathering grew louder. If anyone would have died, it should have been Sherlock. He was closest to the bomb, he was right 'there'.

It wasn't the blood or slacked posture of Sherlock's body as the firemen draped him in their arms, no, it was the fact that Sherlock seemed to never need help. Help in a sense other than solving a riddle or puzzle... Sherlock Holmes was renown for being smarter than this.

Mycroft wouldn't visit him in the hospital, Sherlock had no known friends either, so his mum was the only one at his side while father worked. Even the school soon forgot him while he recovered. News reports accounted for three deaths and twenty wounded, when it was really twenty-one. The pictures the school soon produced around the school of the victims never held Sherlock's face. Now and again a teacher would see Sherlock was missing from class and remember, but what good does that do?

Then comes therapy. When he was able enough to walk again, therapy began and school was on the agenda. The therapists told him not to focus on the pain, his foot being slightly mangled still, but instead on his other senses heightening. "It would come in handy" They would say.

But Sherlock didn't listen. He did other things besides realize that the blind don't see black, because there is literally nothing to his eyes anymore, it's like he doesn't have eyes at all. His mind runs on the smell of things, the smell of his food waking him up in the morning, the sound of the doctor's feet on the different flooring, the feel of cotton to wool. His favorite is taste as of now.

Therapy was going slow, Sherlock didn't care for his providers so whenever they wrote down progress they'd leave huge gaps on their notepads. They didn't know that it was his mind that was getting the therapy.

Coming home helped though. Sherlock didn't need his stick to poke things around the house because he could easily roam around the tight and large corners before when it'd be four in the morning and he'd be too lazy to open his eyes. For a brief moment, he considered being home schooled for the benefits.

Benefits like knowing where you're going, being away from the common idiot (students his age), and easier time concentrating. But something told him that'd be the easy way out. If he was going to struggle with this, struggle learning without sight, struggle with yet another social issue, he might as well face it directly.

So, yes, Sherlock Holmes readied himself for his first day of school as handicapped. In his mind he was constantly going through which class is which and what turn is what. It helped, he convinced his mother he didn't need a seeing eye.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson, was the first to see him exit his mother's car that morning. The teen had been a little rewired since the accident as well, he doesn't know why but he thought doing charity to raise money to fix the school's damage would help. It never did. So the constant image of Sherlock being torn from the rubble that infamous day always ran circles in his mind. Maybe that's why he stared so long at the blinded victim.

Onto charity again, that's what John was doing. Selling go-Britain-army and college information packets, and to his left sat Counselor Lestrade (the founder of the school's running funding project). Lestrade was a new hire to the school, took up to John and understood when the teen told him about his personal experience with the bombing. But he was only an adult, there wasn't much he could say then.

John had a history with the school. He went through suspension phases, then try-too-hard phases, and now he just doesn't give a damn and does what he thinks he should. Lestrade knows this. He also knows when John is about to do something stupid.

"Watson, please don't do whatever you are planning to do." He was referring to Sherlock who was walking exceptionally slow, being pushed and hit by unsuspecting students on his way up the stairs. It was the crowd effect. "Greg, please, you can't just tell me not to help him. Look..." John pointed at the poor dark-curly haired kid, stick tapping helplessly in front of him.

"I see, John, but you don't know how he feels about this. Maybe he feels crowded enough as it is." They continually watch Sherlock, finally making his way inside.

"And maybe he feels alone, like he's the only one out there like that." John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, the bell ringing soon after. Greg sighed, wiping his face and nodding and shaking his head 'no' at the same time, letting John grab his bags and go inside with the rest of the kids.

Molly entered her first class that morning too, Physics, and being the darling little goody she is, she was early. So was Sherlock. It was odd for her, walking in nonchalantly, expecting it to be just her as usual. But there he was, the skinny, dark haired, cloudy eyed genius. His back was straight against the back of his chair he found in the back of the class, and his book bag thrown on the table (something he would have done before).

And Molly knew him. She knew him well, walked behind in in the halls before, would almost coax up words to say, and she'd admire him. And now, he's back, just sitting there, not knowing who it is.

"If I took your seat please let me know." The curl of his lips as he spoke entranced Molly from staring at his wildly expressive and useless eyes. She thought he was beautiful, and now, she could look at him without his imminent disapproval. "My seat? No, no..." Her hands fumbled over her books and she took a scared step forward, "I sit beside you actually." She laughs awkwardly, and a few more kids enter through the door pushing her forward and into a desk.

"You're not afraid are you?" One of his shoulders perk up, still speaking in her direction despite the other voices above his.

Molly smooths her shirt and holds her books tight until she reaches Sherlock. "Afraid? No, just a little nervous. I'm overly amazed by you-" Tripping over her words she's still glad he can't see her, "-Not you-... I mean't your work, what you think up. I'm sorry, i'll stop." She quickly sits and sets her books down, avoiding his face.

"Why stop? I love hearing about myself." Sherlock turns his head, smiling cheekily at her, "Of course i'm not exactly that conceited, but I guess you understood it was a joke." He grabs his bag, head forward and eyes straight as he leans and sets it on the ground. "You still there?"

Molly was sitting, doing her best not to laugh herself into a heart attack. She was a little giddy and very much so nervous. "Yes! I'm sorry, it's just. You're funny."

First period turns out to be alright. The teacher doesn't notice their little chat about what you can deduce about others, and details everyone misses out on. Molly even offers to help him to his next class but he refuses. "I have to learn this by myself, it's just how it has to be."


	3. Chapter 3

But, Sherlock doesn't go to his second period. His walking stick taps against the hollow lockers all the way to the boys restroom. He retreats there. "Anyone in here?" He calls into the dingy area. "good" Mumbling to himself, he rests his stick against the sink and fishes in his pocket. A cigarette, lighter, and blue pill produce in his hand.

John finds himself going into that exact bathroom as well, having no second period giving him time to just do whatever he pleased. "Excuse me, but there's no smoking in here." What pleased him wasn't finding a billow of smoke coming from another student.

Sherlock turned, slowly, in his direction. Picking the cig from his teeth, "Will you buy my story if I say I thought I was outside?"

John curses low to himself, hand quickly coming to his neck in nervousness. It was Sherlock, and the first impression he had on him wasn't that good. "Forgive me, I had no idea who it was, I didn't even see your-" Not knowing how to address the fact of being blind, Sherlock speaks up, "Don't worry, I didn't see it either.", and smiles.

Sighing, John lets his hand fall and weight distribute himself to the sink, "You, uh, you were pulled from the wreckage a few months back. Sorry to be so forward about it, yeah probably not good, but it's a miracle to see you." John had to face the awkward turn of Sherlock, following his voice by ear as he moved.

"I've lived through worse family dinners than that. What's your name?" Sherlock sticks the cig back in his mouth then outstretches the same hand. "John. John Watson, at your service." And John took and shook the larger and bonier hand.

"At my service?" Sherlock raises his eyebrow, high, alerting John. "Wha- No, no. I didn't mean your service as in... No. I have a habit of saying that, I'm joining the army when I graduate so I started saying it early. I'm sorry if I offended you."

Sherlock went back to puffing his lung-fulls of grey, keeping in mind of the other person in front of him. "Didn't say I was offended, John." The shorter teen keeps holding and letting loose of his breath, not sure of many things; If he should continue to allow him to smoke, how many more word slip ups he will do, if secondhand smoking is really that bad, or if Sherlock already hates him to no end.

"Mm, good. That. Is, good." John's hands wrap around both edges of the sink, and he leans in, peeking his eyes at the other boy. He's so blind. Tall. His clothes are all shakes of black and deep blues or hues. He's been generously tipping his head down as if looking at the shorter teen. And he's thin, white, and John knows that if he weren't blind, there would be some sort of light in his eyes. Something.

"Smoke? Which I don't believe you do, or have done, but it's polite to offer." Extending his large hand out with the cigarette pack, he puts them in John's direction. "You're right, I don't. And you shouldn't either."

Sherlock pockets the pack again, and reaches for the little blue pill. "I shouldn't do a lot of things." Popping into his mouth he grits and swallows. John perks up from the mirror, turning quick and wishing Sherlock could see his shocked face. "Are you going to tell me that was prescription too?"

Another smile from the other, "Oh, it was prescription at one point." John flies his hands back down on the sink, "I'd rather you didn't hurt yourself anymore than you already are." This time, he doesn't tiptoe over plain facts. Sherlock hisses as he tosses his cig to the ground, "Stomp on that would you?" He was insulting John in the simplest form he could at the moment.

John sighs loud and lets go of the sink, he squeaks his shoes to stand directly in front of Sherlock and squishes the smoke under his converse in one move. "I really hope you understand that I was only being considerate. You know nothing of me except the fact that I'm trying to help." Sherlock could feel John's breath blowing up to his face.

Sherlock leans in, down, and in. He knowingly directs his blind eyes to John's hazel blue ones. Inches apart. "I know whatever you saw on the day of the accident changed you, and I know it involved me somehow. That much is crystal. I know you like a thrill, I know you want to go to the army to put your rash decisions to use in the field. I also realize you are good in anatomy, you could be a doctor if you wanted. So, why don't you stop telling me what I know? hmm?"

John backs up, his breath kicked up a notch. "You don't think I was just trying to help, do you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "No, nobody just helps me unless they feel obligation. And you have no obligation. Now would you please storm off." John cocks his head. "Why?"

"Because it's kind of hard for a blind guy to be dramatic."

Something in John makes him smile at that, his teeth show through one corner of his mouth. It was hilarious. That's all he could think of. Fighting with a disabled person because he decided to smoke? God, childish.

"Are you laughing? Why are you laughing you're supposed to leave." Hand wandering the wall for his stick, Sherlock sounds disapproving. "Yes i'm laughing! You take things so differently than most people... I have to piss anyway." John walks to a urinal.

"Me too actually, but I'd rather scale the wall for the urinal after you leave." He sounded bored, finally holding his stick in hand.

"Quite right."


	4. Chapter 4

...

A few weeks passed by. Sherlock would come to school, have first period with Molly, then go straight to the bathroom where he'd meet John. After that, the rest of the morning and afternoon was just dull. Sherlock was always in the bathroom, sitting against the wall. He'd be there during lunch, during classes he just wanted to skip, any free time he had. Part of him wanted to see John more than just one class, but it was fictitious of him.

Though, second period was better than none.

"I have a question for you today." John came in with his homework sitting cross legged, scribbling as he wrote. Sherlock was hunched in the corner, head pointed upward. "No, I don't mean to offend everyone I meet."

John begins erasing something he miss wrote on his paper, "That wasn't what I was asking, and do you really do that?" Sherlock scanned his finger against the wall tile. "Yes, and what 'were' you going to ask?"

"Hm. I guess I just wanted to know who Billy is." John continues writing as Sherlock coughs loudly into the air, "Billy?! I haven't heard that name for four years now, who told you about Billy?" Cautiously, Sherlock took out another cigarette and anxiously lit it.

"Lets just say I know your arch nemesis, or enemy. He tried to bribe me, tried to hook me up to a wire of some sort but I said no. Now i'm just curious, who's Billy?" John forgot his work while talking, keeping an eye on Sherlock and dangerous objects like the lighter and sparks he may not see.

"Enemy? Arch enemy... Oh, Mycroft, my brother! Pity you said no, the money would have done good. Him and his high paying job, the sod. And no, Billy will be of no talking matter."

John laughs, then looks down again. "Let me guess, was he a bully?" Rubbing his hands in his curly locks, Sherlock shakes his slow, "He was in a way a bully, but for reality sake, lets say he wasn't." John looks at him squinting, then ignores his work altogether.

"A brother?" John guesses.

Again, no, Sherlock shakes his head. "Not a brother."

Silence. John thought for a few seconds, looking at the broken teen in front of him, at his blushing cheeks and sorrowful face. "So he was important to you, this Billy. Were you two together, I mean are you gay?"

If Lestrade thought about it, he came into conversations at the wrong time ALWAYS. This time being one of those. The bathroom door swings open and Sherlock immediately darts his head to his knees, but then ends up burning his leg on the cig, so he just pops his head up again.

"Jesus, John!" Greg cries, staring at the two boys. John scuffles up, "You told me not to interfere, but I had to, you know I had to."

Sherlock's head turns curiously to John at his statement. "Wait." Stumbling up, forgetting his cane, and nearly tripping over himself, Sherlock stands aggravated in the corner. Counselor Lestrade shoves his finger to John's chest, "I told you to give him time, now I didn't expect you to actually listen to me, but here? And you're asking personal questions! I'm pretty sure his therapist wouldn't like this."

Sherlock tries again to speak, this time John is the one cutting him off. "He's at high school, isn't he? That's what kids do anyway! I'm just not sure you like the fact that I have a friend." Sherlock closes his eyes while John talks, it helps him when trying to follow the person so he can scream in there face, "John fucking Watson you do not ever pretend like i'm not here! And since when did you think you were my friend? Is it because I can't be the one to push you out the door myself? I'm blind for fucks sake not deaf." Seeing as he had gripped John's arm during his expellations of... emotion... he let go.

And John takes a hint and leaves, each step, twelve of them, until the door slams closed. Greg stayed put, looking at Sherlock. "Look, I normally don't allow this behavior, but I see the situation is different."

"Because i'm disabled?" He turns around.

"You are not disabled, you are blind. And for the fact that I didn't want John confronting you because he has this infatuation." Greg still goes to a urinal, pissing as he pleases. "Not with me, though, what is it?" Sherlock went back to his usual of scanning the wall and found his walking stick. "Danger. I had a chat with his parents and they agree. The day of the accident police had to keep him from running into the fire to help... He loves it."

"And because I was involved, you think he's finally realizing this? Or am I just an accessory you need to keep hidden from him. Because that's nice, keep the blind kid from having any friends." Sherlock goes to the sink as Greg approaches and turns it on, squaring the older and taller man.

"Son, look. You two can hang out and tell secrets all you want, but as long as it's PG, and by that I mean no nonsense. No running out during school, doing drugs including your little smoker there, and no lollygagging. I mean it." Greg dries his hands and speaks stern.

"Oh, I see you mean it, but the question is if I will listen or not." Sherlock grows a mischievous smile.

...

"Hey come take a piss with me." John bumps incessantly into Sherlock who then grazes a girl's locker. "Fuck! I could have fallen you arse." John looks around casually as he talks, not used to the eyes Sherlock apparently has on him at all hours.

"Just come, it's the only place private, and quite frankly i'm feeling like skipping history. Did I mention I was sorry?" It became obvious Greg talked to John too, the Counselor in him becoming annoying.

"Sorry? Oh this better be worth something. Okay, I'll piss with you."

Walking into the same old bathrooms, Sherlock can't hide his little smirk. "What are you sorry about exactly?" John smiled too, he knew Sherlock was squeezing the words out of to say, "I apologize for asking about Billy, and making you feel like whatever it is you felt."

John dropped his bag and went to talk closer to the other, to reduce the echoes talking made.

"God you are such a girl, and I know you'd just ask about him again... So- Billy was just some dude who made me feel special for awhile. He uh, kind of humiliated me, forced me to do things I didn't want to, but he'd always be there. Then, one day, he ran off a curb, flipped his car and he was gone. That's who Billy is, but it's fine now." Another blue pill was produced, this time, instead of one, there was three.

John just watched him take it too, he was shell shocked. "You're gay. And you just took more of those not-so prescription pills. I'm not sure if I agree."

Sherlock shook his head, "Oh I think you are wrong on both accounts. I'm not gay, I don't like guys at all and I don't like girls much either. Also, you do agree with me taking pills because it excites you. What if I go into convulsions? What if I have a heart attack? What if I've already had five this morning, and i'm just holding them down with a few more? You are so wrong, John Watson."

Not backing up this time, John got closer. "No, you had a boyfriend, that makes you gay." Bewilderment. "I won't deny my affairs, but I truly hope you see that one mistake doesn't hold you down for the rest of your life. If you are counting people you've dated, then more girls have cornered me at parties than guys. Not gay."

"Well, alright, but you certainly aren't asexual if that's what you're getting at." John mindlessly pats a hand in the center of Sherlock's chest and turns to walk off. Instead, Sherlock catches that hand and holds it.

If someone were to walk in, not Greg, well, Greg too, they'd see something strange. A lanky, taller teen boy with clouded eyes, auburn dark curly hair, one hand on his walking stick and the other on the other teen boy, who was shorter but firmer, tanner with dirty blond hair, who was working with the taller teen. That hand went immediately flush back to Sherlock's chest, a winded sigh coming from the shorter one's mouth. Like he ran a mile for him to do this.

"You're right, I'm not asexual. I make exceptions." Sherlock slowly loosens his hold to grab at more of John's hand, then arm, then shoulder. Wrinkling the fabric as he pushes his hand upwards, having John intake his breath and force him to suppress something inside of him. The fingers trace over skin of neck, then caress there.

"I also have a young girl named Molly who would have me right now. She's not my type, she's an enthusiast, and I hate a bubbly attitude. But she deserves someone. Say something right now and I will decline her offer." The sudden rush of words came straight from Sherlock pent up mind. He's saved it as long as he could, and now with Molly making her love for him harder ignore, and with John giving him the light of day, it was worth a shot. It was worth the added pain of rejection.

John's loud breath signals Sherlock to begin backing to the wall before John even begins moving. The familiar squeak of his sneakers sound until Sherlock's back is chilled by tile. In waves, John moves to hold or kiss, maybe just lay his head on Sherlock. And even though he can't see John, Sherlock plays too, chases the sound of ragged breath with his own lips and sticks his head out praying for purchase, praying John will finally answer him and stop playing.

Lulling their heads after one another, John's hand sneaks to weigh Sherlock's perfect and straight back to a hunch. And Sherlock doesn't complain when awkward lips come to kiss on his cheek, that hand bringing him down moving to the back of his neck, holding it, then fisting at the hair at his nape. John pulls back slightly, the sound of Sherlock's own ashy breath in his ear. "It wouldn't be.. Not right, Sherlock."

Thinking twice, Sherlock sees John's breath isn't ragged from the sexual tension, but from tears, one of them falling quite nicely on Sherlock's collar bone. He didn't want John to cry, anyone else he wouldn't care, not even Molly sadly, just not his friend. "Sorry." He apologizes.

They've never been this close, they've only shaken hands actually. The only conversations were the informal ones they'd gossip over in the said bathroom. In fact, they were barely acquaintances. It made no sense for John to make such an emotional leap.

But 'John' hated hearing Sherlock apologize more than Sherlock hated making him hurt. John's other hand goes with his other, and he runs his hands up through Sherlock's dark curls forcefully, gritting his teeth as he did it. Then, pulling Sherlock down as hard as he could, he made lip to tongue to lip to tongue contact.

Greg was right, of course, John loved danger and he saw Sherlock putting him in some imminently. It WAS going to happen, just like Sherlock's hip was going to flush with John's despite the fear of someone walking in. They had each other. Sherlock supplied the danger, and John fed off from that. They didn't need Greg to tell them that.

So, as the two boys leaned against the wall, exploring each other's mouth and roamed each other's bodies with curious hands, it was an unsaid agreement. They'd give the other what they needed. Rather it be a taste for danger, or the feel of sentimentality, they'd give it to them.


	5. Chapter 5

"You just... You can't-" Palms out and eyebrows curiously crossed, the principal leans back on his desk. Greg is also there, standing in the corner like a betrayed parent, "A public display of affection is strictly off limits! That means no groping in the boys bathroom."

Mouth open and eyes clenched tight, Sherlock groans. "You're making this very difficult for John, both of you. I mean any teenager would when confronted about his sexuality and the added shame of being caught in the act... Just look at him, I bet he's gone quiet!" Not needing to see for himself, Sherlock gestures softly to his, eh, whatever John is.

"And you're making it worse now that you mention it." Whispering with threat in his voice, John continues to avoid the eyes on him. He sits there, hands clasped between his legs and a heat blistering his ears red, faintly aware of a ringing noise he can't place.

"Oh I can make it a lot worse!" Greg's angry side getting the better.

"Okay, alright, stop. We're stopping! I want to forget this as much as you do, so just do one thing for me. 'Kay? The two of you." The principal didn't continue until he got a nod, from Sherlock too. "As an alternative of me calling any parents and making things uncomfortable, I need you two to have a two on one chat with Nurse Irene."

Knowing exactly what that entailed, John nearly cried out. "Because that's definitely not uncomfortable!" Hands flying in the air.

"Nurse Irene is a professional, and very good with people." The principal defends. Sherlock counters, "Oh, I think you know just how much of a professional she is, sir, if you don't mind." It was the way he inflected his speech when speaking of her, any person listening would have found his slip up.

"You're going!" Greg booms once more before forcing Sherlock's walking stick into his hand.

...

Nurse Irene was widely known among the students as 'mother'. And not in the general sense. She was good at keeping her name clear when confronted by the school board, and always continued her ministrations after they'd leave.

Nurse Irene slept with boys, experimented with the girls, and flirted with each and every teacher, lunch lady, and janitor. Nobody was offended by her, not even the principal when he was caught slipping his hand up her skirt by a junior high kid.

So, when Irene and her black heels and tight, uniform dress came waltzing in, John knew this wouldn't be an ordinary talk. Sherlock could care less.

"Good evening, boys." She danced around the two already sitting and silent. "Seems like you were caught, weren't you? Such bad men, and a pity too!" Her desk met just above her bellybutton when she sat, back straight and chest out, and her hands went busy in her desk-drawers.

"But we can fix that, can't we?"

Sherlock wished for this one time, that he had his sight back just so he could see John's face. This one time, he needed to know if he was nervous, amused, or even mad at him. "What exactly are we fixing?" John piped, alerting Sherlock of John's vocal state: Slightly sarcastic, and yes, nervous.

"Well, I rephrase to help. I know what it's like to be curious, bi curious, or whatever you two want to explore together. You just need the ropes." Irene tossed, what sounded like to Sherlock, a few packaged items and one sounding with a thump.

Sherlock turned to John with a questioned look. John sighed, not amused at all, "They're condoms, Sherlock."

Okay, maybe John was a little furious at Sherlock. Two reasons he'd be mad; Sherlock threatened with Molly, and he wasn't very time inclined. Sherlock sank back, John's anger worse than Irene's bickering.

"And lube. God knows you boys aren't as slippery as girls are, you'll be needing plenty." She was leaning forward, boobs very basically hanging for John's eyes. "Um, thanks, but we're not exactly a couple."

BANG! Sherlock's heart went from pacing slow and steady to heart attack worthy. Nurse Irene grabs a condom, swirling it in between her fingers, "I take that two ways, dear. Either you're using each other emotionally unattached, or you are purely just a kiss and don't tell duo." She comes to the front of her desk, barely enough room for the boy's legs, much less her.

"I made a mistake, nurse, if you must know. None of this is necessary." Sherlock's head was pointed toward an adjacent wall. "Mistake? From what I heard, it took thirty seconds for you two to even notice anybody was watching you. That's not a mistake, that's a privilege. I'd love to lose myself like that." Okay, Nurse Irene, turning into therapist Irene.

"I'm done, can't I just go now?" With a bitch slur in his voice, John cried again. Personally, John felt used and very confused. More confused than before meeting Sherlock. Irene hands the condom to John, but Sherlock wasn't sure what had happened. "One way or another you'll need it," Irene purrs.

"Need what? John, please just talk with me." Sherlock reached out just as John was standing. "Later, alright? Not in the mood." Converse squeaking, John slams his way out. Sherlock, still stretched to reach after his friend, leans back.

"As the old saying goes... If you love them, you have to watch them leave... But I don't think watching is a big deal for you." Her hand comes to direct his face with hers, petting his milky skin. "Irene, I'll be in the boys bathroom." His hand counters hers and he gets up vigorously.

"And why are you telling me this?" She husks.

"You bid your time having sex, and I bid mine playing with needles... Come check on me in thirty minutes." Sherlock walks out.


	6. Chapter 6

Irene cared for her students, really. But with Hannah texting her ten minutes before she was supposed to check on the blind boy, she couldn't just drop everything for him! So thirty minutes ended up being a little over an hour.

Her heels clicked in an echo as she entered the bathroom, her skirt a little off center. "Sherlock?" She called, precautiously.

She didn't know the extent of his request, though, she had the idea once she realized exactly what she's done. Irene left Sherlock in the bathroom, needle used and emptied, slumped on his back, head propped against the wall, and his cane snapped in two opposite him.

"Sherlock! Oh god." She flew to him, letting his head bob back as she tilted him upright, pulling her phone out with one hand. As she called, Sherlock looked up to her as if his eyes suddenly worked again. He knew in his drugged mind that Irene was untrustworthy, and gave her (a member of the school's elite staff) the option to help him sooner.

Now, his body could either dispel of the tar, or go into shock. Either way, Sherlock didn't feel a pinch. "Rule number one, Sherlock, don't trust me." Irene said to him moments before his eyes lid shut.

...

A week later, and a lot has happened. Not only did his doctors call his parents who then gave him a stern talking to, but Mycroft was more into his business than usual.

So, when students began filing out at the last bell rung of the day, Sherlock just stood in the middle of the hall. Dropping his bag, Sherlock sat, hearing the last of the footsteps. He didn't want to go home. Not now.

"Okay, are you this blind or what?" John, out of all the voices, was the one that snuck up on him. Shocked, Sherlock looks up with his curls lower than normal. "John?"

The sound of saliva Sherlock heard was John licking his lips, "Glad you recognize my voice, but I was hoping you were more apt for other things." The shifting of Sherlock's bag into John's hand then John's hand tapping at Sherlock's shoulder (signaling he was helping him up), confused the teenager. "You hate me, remember? I distinctly remember-" John's hand taps harder on his shoulder for his hand, "You remember me telling you I needed to go, which meant I needed time. And I've thought about it."

Reluctant, Sherlock takes the hand, but incredibly, he didn't feel as if he deserved it. "You said 'apt for other things'. What are you expecting of me?" Standing, without a proper walking stick since the other one is still in two, Sherlock instead takes his bag.

"I'm expecting you to remember your drawer full of case files you left in your desk." Every so careful of Sherlock's reaction, John led him arm in arm to the lockers. Feeling lucky still, Sherlock doesn't go to make any moves himself, "Yes? If you're talking about the files of the public bomber, then you'd know they went to dust with the bomb itself. Same room as the incident."

John released his arm from the other and stuffed both bags into his small locker, "You don't know that. And you're wrong. Before the police had to sweep me away from the scene, I found them scattered on the ground." John then digs again, pulling out a binder full of information.

"What do you plan on doing with that? I can't read it and you can't decipher it!" Sherlock pointed out the obvious.

John smiled up into Sherlock's glazed over eyes, the liveliness of the boy he was still there. "We can help each other out. That's what we promised, right?"


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock walked carefully behind John. Having invited the curly haired boy over to his house, he forgot about his blindness and lack of walking stick. 

"Oh, shi- Sorry, the steps to the school weren't that bad for you, were they?" They were a block from the school when John finally turned around. Truthfully, he felt nervous to have invited someone so important to his cruddy room. 

Sherlock gripped his backpack strap tighter, "No, n-no, I managed. We're on Avenue H, aren't we?" John, smacking himself to remember such a thing as Sherlock being blind, went to stand beside him, bumping arms. They continued walking after a brief second, "Avenue H, yeah. How do you know?" 

Stopping when John stopped to cross a street and walking again when he did, Sherlock felt comfortable. "I think of it as waking up at 3 in the morning to get a snack, and not wanting to wake anyone with the lights. Yeah, you may bump into a wall or stub your toe every now and then, but you get there. And since it's your house, you know vaguely where every piece of furniture is." 

John dug into his pocket to retrieve his key, "That's wow, amazing." Looking up, he saw a smirk play across the taller's face. "Okay, before we go in I have to warn you. My sister may be home, and if she is, she may go out of her way to make rude remarks." He talked as he led the other to the doorstep.

"Harry Watson is your sister? Oh, I assumed to quickly after hearing her engagement to Clair something or another." John gave Sherlock a glare he knew he could feel. "Just watch out for her." And opened the door. 

Cold air washed over Sherlock's face and he inhaled the Watson's family smell that everyone seemed to differ on. But smelling this, oh, it was a house that smelled precisely of John and he loved it. "Nice house." 

"Good one." John began dragging him inside by his cuff, closing the door. "Harry's not here, her music would be playing." Sherlock nodded, curtly following behind John's moving steps again. 

"I mean it when I say, nice house, John. Everything about the smell and feel reminds me of you."   
John's face flushed, and he smiled into his hand. "I'm flattered." 

Soon being led to sit on John's bed, low to the ground, Sherlock chunked his backpack to the ground. 

"My room's a mess, I hope it won't bother you." John laughed and sat beside the other to look through his bag for the files. It was quiet for nine whole seconds, and Sherlock soaked them up. To be in John's room of all places, to be there after what happened just a week ago. 

"John, why did you save my files?" He asked. 

"Because I looked up to you in a way. You are the smartest in this school." John had stilled to look at him.   
"No, really. Why are you telling me now?" 

John let out a long breath, setting aside the papers in his hands, "I guess it's because I really did think about us. When I found out what you did to yourself, I felt responsible. I went to Counselor Greg and we talked, and..." He got closer to Sherlock and put his face against his chest, "I used the files so I could get close to you and tell you how much I love you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really cannot finish this with justice. My friend whom I was writing this with passed away during the middle of multiple stories, and I can't see myself extending this one anymore. Thanks for reading.

Sherlock sat idle for longer than John hoped. Every heavy breath Sherlock took made the bed springs creak. When seconds upon seconds turned into minutes, John began to worry, until a hand moved.  
In unsure shakiness the hand moved to smoothen over John's forehead and hair, damp from perspiration. That's when both could breath slow and sure.  
"It worked. You using the files to get close to me." The low voice sounded through John's head that still lay on his chest, low and deep.  
"Yeah?" He pulled away, addressing his face and eyes and mouth.  
This is where Sherlock truly misses his sight. None of his other senses can give him the satisfaction of seeing John's face here and now. He craves the intimacy of seeing through another persons veil of sight and predicting what they are feeling.  
Instead his hands go up again. They wander up John's arms, wrinkling the fabric on his shoulders, making the other shiver and goosebump. Then, he pays close attention to the warmth of John's neck and the faint beat of his pulse under his left ear.  
And John allows the exploration. It's sudden and new, but understandable and welcome.  
"Yeah." Sherlock finally agrees, his hand wraps around the back of John's neck, caressing the hairs at his nape and tilting his head just so. John's breath hitches. His head comes in, lips darting to talk into other's right ear, "I may love you as well."  
Furrowing his eyebrows, John pushes away with a loud laugh, "W-ha- What? You MAY love me back? Bitch."  
Sherlock laughs back, his hand pushing back at John's torso. "Don't call me a bitch!" There was a liveliness of his hazed eyes, scrunched closed with his cheeks.  
"And I thought we were having a moment." John leans back on the bed with a bounce. Sherlock, who took a second to realize where he had gone, joined shortly after. "What are you? A twelve year old girl?"  
"I try." He replied.  
"But I really wasn't lying. I do like you, I don't want you to leave again." Sherlock caught his attention by grabbing his wrist lightly, squeezing it.  
"It was a shitty thing of me to do, I know, but I panicked. I'm not used to people thinking I'm g-… into guys." At John's dying words, Sherlock removes his hand, "You- um, you did have those files, didn't you? We could just look at those for now, yeah?"  
It was a hope to mask that last bit of awkwardness and guilt.  
"Yeah, of course! I wouldn't lie to a blind kid. I'm rude sometimes, but not Satan." Sitting up once more, he grabs the files, and bounces back on the bed.  
"That's fantastic actually, because I was onto something. I can almost see it." Sherlock grazes his hand over the papers John holds above their heads, closing his eyes tight. "There were at least three suspects, I'm sure of it."  
John begins reading behind the hand, scanning the fast, crudely written words. "I see Professor James Moriarty, Irene Adler, and... no, you really suspect Mary Morstan?"  
"She is on the list for a reason, John. I know she's your ex girlfriend, but she spends way too much time with nurse Irene and Professor Moriarty."  
John puts the papers down, looking over, "She was in the bomb blast, Sherlock. She was injured pretty badly."  
Sherlock looks over too, and tutts, "She was to be disposed of."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written awhile ago. Written by me and my best friend before her last battle with cancer. I really like this story, and want it to continue. So be patient with me.


End file.
